


Finding Home: A Gretchen Janeway and Owen Paris Love Story

by Curator



Category: Star Trek: Voyager
Genre: F/M, love with baggage/baggage with love, mostly alpha canon, slow burn and firey fights, technobabble first then feelings, trigger warning: adultery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-14
Updated: 2019-11-14
Packaged: 2021-01-30 19:28:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21433477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Curator/pseuds/Curator
Summary: It starts when the ship that holds their children disappears. Well, that’s kind of when it starts. It ends when the ship arrives home. Well, that’s kind of when it ends. In between, voices rise and fall, things get broken and mended, and two people become closer than they ever thought possible.
Relationships: Gretchen Janeway/Owen Paris
Comments: 51
Kudos: 28





	1. The First Year

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cheile (Cheile)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cheile/gifts).

> For cheile, who asked me to consider writing Gretchen Janeway/Owen Paris and then added, “I’d read it.” Because, evidently, that’s all it takes….
> 
> * * *
> 
> Characterizations and events are based on alpha canon with a few pre-series plot elements from Mosaic. What’s that you say? There is virtually no alpha canon Gretchen Janeway? Ah, then you understand …

“Did the search team scan for a resonance trace from the warp core?”

There is no tremor in her voice. Her hands don’t shake. Gretchen Janeway’s ice blue eyes demand answers, not sympathy, and she holds her guest to the same standard. 

“They’ve scanned twice, once closer to the Moriya system and another, more focused scan, within the Terikof Belt.” Before she can ask, he adds, “The team will check the whole of the Badlands. The plasma storms are slowing their search, but not stopping it.”

Owen Paris took off his uniform at the Bloomington transporter station, so one of Starfleet’s most decorated admirals sits at a dining room table in Indiana discussing official business in brown slacks and a green sweater, his commbadge digging into his thigh from his right front pocket. The woman across from him has auburn hair streaked with white, narrow hips, and a nose that would be severe if not for a slight upturn at the end.

The tea they are supposed to be drinking has gone cold. Owen remembers Eddie Janeway as a tea aficionado, but Owen isn’t sure if Gretchen suggested tea because it was a custom of her late husband’s or because she presumes one Starfleet admiral is the same as another when it comes to china cups, a warm beverage, and poor company. 

Owen shifts in his chair.

“Starships don’t just disappear,” he says, unnecessarily. “She’s out there.”

Gretchen’s head tilts. “_Voyager_, or Kathryn?”

To Owen, these have been one and the same. His error occurs to him as his mouth forms a small o. Unbidden comes his memory of the _Terra Nova_ pulled from ice, the crystallized bodies of Eddie Janeway and Justin Tighe within. Gretchen had surprised Starfleet officials when she replied affirmatively to their invitation to witness the dredging. The team of engineers had busied themselves behind their consoles, not one of them daring to look at her as they called out updates on their progress. 

As the _Terra Nova_ and those it entombed were tractored into the salvage vessel’s cargo hold, one engineer, giddy at the opportunity to examine the prototype ship, had bobbed his head in delight. “Vulture,” Owen had thought, and strode toward the civilian standing alone.

“How are your daughters holding up?” Owen hadn’t been able to recall Gretchen’s younger child’s name. Hell, he barely knew Gretchen but someone had to talk to her.

Gretchen’s gaze had stayed on the ship inching into the hold. “It’s a difficult time.”

“I’m sorry for your losses.” Owen had said. “We’ll analyze the _Terra Nova’s_ systems until we pinpoint the problem. Starfleet won’t rest until this is solved. I’ll update you with reports of every relevant finding. Starfleet —”

“Starfleet widowed me long before the _Terra Nova_, Admiral Paris.” Gretchen had glanced at him, then returned her attention to the frozen ship. “I thank you for your condolences.”

A dozen years later, Owen grasps a cup of cold tea and tells Gretchen, “Starfleet won’t rest until this is solved. I’ll update you with reports of every relevant finding.”

Gretchen pulls the delicate teacup from his large hand. “That won’t taste good anymore.”

She carries the tea set into the kitchen. 

Owen looks around the dining room. On the far end of the wooden table are stacks of padds. They aren’t Starfleet issue, so Owen eyes them warily. Pictures on the wall show the family — Eddie, Gretchen, Kathryn, and the younger daughter: Phoebe. Owen looked up her name before leaving San Francisco. Outside the window is a frozen field and grey sky. 

When she returns, steam rising from the teapot, Gretchen says, “I’d like raw data, not reports, Admiral Paris.”

He isn’t sure if Starfleet will allow this. To give himself time to think, Owen pours himself a cup of tea. He drinks it too quickly, burning the roof of his mouth. Owen’s eyes water. Gretchen watches but doesn’t apologize for hot tea served hot. 

He coughs.

“How would you like the data delivered?”

Gretchen tells him her schedule. She works from her office at Indiana State University on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. She works from home on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Admiral Paris can comm her anytime or he may come for tea on the days she’s at the farmhouse. 

“What, ah, is it you do?” Owen asks.

Gretchen’s eyebrow rises. “Scientific data analysis.”

Owen knew that. Damnit. Eddie and Kathryn both mentioned Gretchen’s work dozens of times. She’s even been in the news recently for a paper on varied implications of non-linear spatial phenomena.

“I’ll come for tea twice a week,” Owen promises. “I’ll bring you every piece of information Starfleet will allow me to remove from headquarters.”

Gretchen sips her tea. “Kathryn said she went over your head for permission to bring your son, Tom, on the mission — despite your objections. Is that correct, Admiral?”

His eyes drift to a family picture on the wall. Parents with real smiles, children with fake ones, and what looks like a campsite behind them. “Yes, that’s right.”

“Then you’ll see the wisdom of bringing me every piece of information, approved or not, regarding _Voyager’s_ disappearance.”

Owen finds himself agreeing.

***

“Plasma storms at levels three and four wouldn’t be sufficient to vaporize a scout vessel, much less an Intrepid-class starship. Tell your people to find a more plausible theory.”

Gretchen’s padd clatters onto the table. Her fingers go to her temples.

_Voyager_ has been missing for four months. 

“Where do you suggest they focus their efforts?” 

Owen has learned not to argue. Gretchen doesn’t mind being wrong. Far from it. Her scientific mind embraces answers, even if they aren’t her own. What she won’t tolerate is uninformed debate. A challenge to Gretchen Janeway’s way of thinking requires evidence, and, at this point, Owen has precious little evidence of anything.

Gretchen picks up another padd. “Scans show the graviton particle field didn’t affect the displacement wave. That suggests a sophistication beyond anything the Federation has seen before.”

Owen leans forward. “You think this is intelligence, not natural phenomena?”

“Have you ever seen a displacement wave unaffected by a graviton particle field?” At Owen’s shake of his head, Gretchen hands him the padd. “Then intelligence is a possibility.”

Owen considers this. A displacement wave could have destroyed the ship. It also could have taken _Voyager_ anywhere in the galaxy, to other galaxies, even to other universes. If there was a temporal signature — and scans for chroniton particles have been inconclusive — then _Voyager_ could be anywhere in time. An intelligence would suggest a purpose beyond destruction. 

“I’ll redirect the team,” Owen says. 

Gretchen nods crisply. The first pot of tea is drained, so she rises to get the second. Owen rubs his eyes.

Working with Eddie was like tiptoeing past a geyser. The man would erupt with ideas, then watch everyone around him scurry to implement them.

Working with Kathryn was like pruning an azalea bush. Her skills would flower — science, command, strategy — but they had to be professionalized in the proper order so her career could flourish. 

Working with Gretchen is like trying to run alongside a rabbit. She’s always a step ahead. Owen has watched her face alight with excitement and crumple in despair. Either way, she double- and triple-checks her work before sharing it with him.

Gretchen returns with the fresh pot of tea, plus a small plate of sugar cookies. 

Owen blinks. 

“I remember you liked them last week.” Gretchen puts the plate in front of Owen. “I didn’t get a chance to make more until yesterday.”

“I … I thank you,” Owen says. 

Gretchen smiles slightly. 

He takes a bite, the sweet, soft cookie melting in his mouth as they return to their padds.

***

“You can’t ask Starfleet to do that!” Owen’s fists are clenched and his face is flushed. 

“I can ask Starfleet anything I damn well please.” Gretchen folds her arms across her chest. “If my request is denied, I can appeal until it crosses your desk.”

“And I’ll deny it the same as anyone else.”

It’s been eight months since _Voyager_ disappeared.

Owen has shared tea with Mark Johnson, Kathryn’s fiancé, when Gretchen asked Owen to please explain to Mark why, even if Kathryn was found that very day, Starfleet wouldn’t release her until after weeks of medical testing and briefings. Owen went over information again and again, answering every question, outlining every scenario. Eyes shining, Mark finally agreed to cancel the wedding. Gretchen had hugged Mark, cupping the back of his head the way a parent might comfort a child. Later, she thanked Owen for his gentle explanations of Starfleet procedures.

“How’s Julia doing with all this?” she had asked. 

It wasn’t the first time Gretchen had inquired about Owen’s wife or daughters. 

He always changed the subject. 

Owen has witnessed the tornado that is Phoebe Janeway. She’d rushed into the farmhouse looking for a sketch pad left behind from a weekend visit. 

“Oh,” she had said, skidding into the dining room, her eyes flicking from her mother to her mother’s guest to piles of Starfleet-issue padds. 

“Phoebe, you remember Admiral Paris.” Gretchen stood and embraced her daughter. 

“I’m sorry, sir,” Phoebe said. “I didn’t recognize you out of uniform.”

Owen was still changing his clothes at the Bloomington transporter station. His instincts had been correct about Gretchen’s feelings toward Starfleet, and he saw no need to rile her suspicions any more than necessary.

Phoebe plucked the last cookie from the dish on the table. “Sugar cookies, Mom?” She took a bite. “I thought you didn’t like these.”

Owen had stared at the crumbs on his plate as Gretchen elbowed Phoebe out of the dining room. When Gretchen returned, she told Owen, “Crisis averted. Phoebe’s lost sketch pad was in the sink of the girls’ bathroom.”

“The sink?”

Gretchen shrugged. 

“Why do you bake cookies you don’t like?” Owen had focused on Gretchen’s forehead, too flustered to meet her eyes. 

“Why do starships make course adjustments less than a minute before a displacement wave manifests fewer than a thousand kilometers to stern?” Gretchen had scooped up a padd from the table. “Now there’s a mystery.”

That was weeks ago, and Owen had let his cookie question go unanswered. But he won’t back down this time, Gretchen’s crossed arms and fire-spitting eyes be damned. 

“If I file the request and you deny it, you keep us that much further from knowing what happened to Kathryn and Tom and everyone else on that ship.”

“Gretchen, you’re asking Starfleet to exchange information with the Cardassians. We’ve been at war with them before and early intelligence suggests we will be again.”

Gretchen begins to pace. 

“Do you give a damn, Owen?”

Fuming, he strides toward her. “How dare you ask me that? We’ve spent months —”

“We’ve spent months analyzing surveillance data! Computer scans through a dense, stormy part of space. The Cardassians know the territory better than we do.” Gretchen stops in front of Owen. Her hands go to her hips. “And any request to speak to them is an opportunity for peaceful cooperation, something that could build bridges of understanding that become even more important if war is a threat.”

“Starfleet considered outreach to the Cardassians and deemed it inadvisable.” Owen sees Gretchen’s mouth open to argue, so he speaks over her. “The decision was final.”

“The decision is bullshit!” Gretchen’s voice is the loudest Owen has ever heard it. 

He matches her volume. “There’s nothing you can —”

“Don’t tell me what I can and cannot do! You sit behind a desk and analyze data all day. I sit behind a desk and analyze data all day. We both know when more information is needed the only feasible course of action is to acquire it. If Starfleet is too pigheaded to —”

“Stop, Gretchen. Drop this line of thinking. Drop it now.” 

Owen’s yelling has become so fierce his head shakes with every word. Gretchen’s chest is jutted forward as she shouts her arguments up to a man taller and larger than she is. 

“I won’t drop a goddamn thing, Owen. I’ll do what Kathryn did and go above your head to Admiral Patterson.”

“If you think you can —”

“Oh, I think a lot of things. I think Starfleet is a fucked-up institution and I think denying permission to contact the Cardassians was a fucked-up decision.”

“I know it was!” Owen roars. “That’s why I disobeyed it.”

They’re standing chest to chest. Owen doesn’t touch Gretchen, but she staggers backward as if he struck her. 

“You … you what?”

Owen presses his palm to his forehead. “I masked my comm signature and contacted Gul Evek myself. He gave me information in exchange for shield technology to better protect Cardassian ships against the plasma storms.”

Because of her older daughter’s involvement, Gretchen knows that, fifteen years ago, Cardassians tortured Owen until he broke, spilling Starfleet secrets as his blood seeped into the cold ground of a Cardassian prison. She knows Owen required months of rehabilitation to be deemed fit to return to duty. She knows Starfleet kept Owen out of the Cardassian War, even though, until then, a Paris flag officer had helped lead military strategy for every major conflict in Federation history.

It takes her a few deep breaths, but Gretchen steadies herself. “That must have been very hard for you — to look a Cardassian in the face and negotiate with him.”

“It was,” Owen says stiffly. “And, before you ask, the information wasn’t anything we didn’t already know. There had been a subspace conversation with the Maquis ship that disappeared, but the record yielded nothing relevant to our search.”

“When did you…?”

“Two weeks after _Voyager_ disappeared. Against orders.”

The dining room in Bloomington recedes and Owen sees Cardassians, their gray lips twisted into a sneer at his pleas for leniency. They turn a knob and the pain searing through his body increases. He’s burned alive and still burning. When he falls, combat boots kick his legs, his stomach, his groin. He hopes Ensign Janeway was killed when her head hit the console in their shuttle. He can’t fathom what the Cardassians might do to a young officer, a woman. What was he thinking bringing her on this mission? Why did he ever —?

“Owen.”

He’s in the dining room. Gretchen is standing in front of him, her hand on his forearm. Had she called his name more than once?

“Sit down.” She motions toward a dining room chair, then disappears into the kitchen. 

Owen sits. He breathes deeply, in through his nose and out through his mouth. His head turns to the window and he sees wind shift the stalks of corn growing in the fields. 

When Gretchen comes back, she has two glasses, each with three fingers of whiskey, neat. 

It’s the middle of the day, but Owen takes a glass and brings it to his lips. The Irish whiskey is less sweet than what he’s used to but it’s smooth and it warms his chest in a way he didn’t know he needed.

“I shouldn’t have pushed you about the Cardassians.” Gretchen swirls her whiskey. “I apologize.”

Owen wants another sip of his drink, but he’s transfixed by the amber wave cresting and receding around Gretchen’s glass as she speaks.

“Sometimes my goals supersede my common sense. Tenacity isn’t an excuse, but it’s a reason and I hope you’ll forgive me.”

Their eyes meet.

For a second, Owen sees a flash of something he hasn’t seen in years — decades? — from anyone. 

Affection.

His voice is hoarse. “I wished Kathryn dead when the Cardassians were torturing me. I wished my son dead when I couldn’t stop him from piloting drunk even though he was carrying passengers. I wished them dead and now they’re gone, so, Gretchen, please understand while I am fully aware wishes don’t make a starship disappear, the irrational part of my brain blames myself, my weaknesses, my limitations, for this. So, if anyone should be asking for forgiveness …”

His throat threatens to close. 

Owen plies it with whiskey.

Gretchen sits in a chair next to his. She takes his hand. 

“You are a brilliant fool, Owen Paris.”

He laughs and cries in equal measure.


	2. The Second Year

Owen’s stop at the Bloomington Blooms flower shop has become as familiar as shedding his uniform at the transporter station. Gretchen said something once about tulips and, since then, he brings her a bouquet on Thursdays.

If he recalls correctly, Julia likes paperwhites, but he’s never looked for them amid the blossoms.

On this day, Owen clutches the tulips and hopes they aren’t for his own funeral. 

He enters the farmhouse and, per their custom, calls for Gretchen. She’ll wrap up whatever she’s working on, then join him for tea, data analysis, and conversation. 

Owen has told her about his father, a larger-than-life officer who never took an interest in his son. Owen has voiced his regret for overcorrecting by micromanaging Tom, pushing him too hard. 

Gretchen has expressed her concerns about Phoebe, a young woman who pours her emotions into art that has gone maudlin since she suffered the loss of her father and disappearance of her sister. Gretchen has reminisced about Kathryn’s frequent comm calls — to Gretchen, to Phoebe, to Mark. Gretchen worries Kathryn is desperately lonely, alive but isolated.

Owen knows Gretchen thinks the Federation President should have bolder policies. Gretchen knows Owen thinks holodecks are for the young, site-to-site transports are for the old, and the sunset as seen from the third planet in the Algol system is the most beautiful in the quadrant. 

When he confides in her, she cradles her chin in her hand. When she shares her thoughts, he listens so intently his eyebrows furrow. 

Owen shifts the tulips from one hand to the other as he removes his coat and hangs it on his hook. He steps toward the kitchen to set the water to boil. Gretchen is already at the stove.

“Slow workday?” he asks. 

She shakes her head. “I took the day off. Can’t focus.”

_Voyager_ disappeared one year and one day ago. With a year elapsed and no answers, Starfleet automatically rolls the investigation to “non-urgent” and pulls personnel from the search effort unless new information emerges. 

There hasn’t been new information for months.

Gretchen has gone over everything four, five, ten times. She’s dragged Owen with her down what they both know are deductive dead ends. He’s pulled strings, called in favors, pressured great officers to do the impossible: to figure out what happened to _Voyager_ and her crew. 

The teakettle’s whistle begins to shriek. Gretchen doesn’t seem to notice, so Owen reaches over her to deactivate the heat element. 

“Waste is impossible,” she mutters. “Fucking first law of goddamn fucking thermodynamics.”

The first law of thermodynamics states energy in the universe can change form, but can’t increase or decrease. Therefore, as Gretchen and Owen have told each other numerous times, science holds that _Voyager_ and the people inside it require a form — matter, potential energy, kinetic energy, stored energy like in a transporter buffer, or dispersed energy like after a phaser blast. The ship and her crew can’t become nothing with no trace of residual energy.

Except they have. 

Gretchen turns to Owen. She shakes her head slightly, as if to clear it. “It was kind of Starfleet to allow you to spend so much time here, to let me advise on the search. It’s good to know headquarters has become more flexible.”

Owen doesn’t tell Gretchen how hard he fought for what she perceives as kindness. He doesn’t tell her that his superiors would call for his head if they knew he’d shared information beyond what had been approved. Instead, he lays the flowers on the countertop.

The vase is already in the sink, and Gretchen busies herself trimming ends and arranging stems. The tulips always look nice in the shop, but even better once she’s made them her own. 

“Thank you,” she says. “These are lovely.”

Owen would puff with pride, but his worried eyes are on Gretchen. She leaves the vase in the sink and yanks a bottle from a wine rack. Cabernet Sauvignon flows generously into two glasses. Owen accepts the one she hands him.

“To our departed children,” she says and clinks her glass against his. “May the joy they brought us always remain in our hearts.”

She drains her wine and reaches for the bottle again. Owen places his mostly full glass on the countertop. 

“Gretchen.” His hand goes to her shoulder.

“Of course,” she steps away and his arm falls to his side, “you must need to go back to your office. You don’t have time for this. Too much to do, always, right? That’s the admiral’s life.”

He tries to speak but she barrels ahead.

“Please give Julia and your daughters my best. If your family sends cards for Federation Day, I would appreciate being added to the distribution list. It would be nice to know how you’re doing.”

She moves to leave the room, presumably to give him his coat and see him off, perhaps even to watch as he walks away for the last time. But Owen catches Gretchen by the wrist and her arm stiffens. 

“I’ve been staying late at headquarters because of the time I spend with you.” Owen’s voice is rough and he tries to ignore the warmth of her skin under his fingers. “We haven’t made real headway in months. You’re a scientist. Why do you think I keep coming here?”

She looks up at him. “Duty. Guilt. Another mind on a problem.” He shakes his head and she adds, “Tea and sugar cookies?”

Oh, laughing together feels good. 

“I enjoy spending time with you, Gretchen. I’d like to continue doing so.”

She blinks rapidly. “Starfleet can’t use me anymore. There’s no reason for you to —”

“To be your friend? I’d like to believe I’ve already become your friend, Gretchen.” Owen’s fingers throb. He realizes he’s been clutching Gretchen’s wrist too tightly, that he could be hurting her. Owen loosens his grip. “Can we stay friends?”

Her blue eyes meet his and he knows, he _knows_, that she can see through his act. Gretchen has been trying to give him an easy way out, a coward’s exit, and he didn’t take it.

His fingers release as if they were touching fire. 

He takes a step backward. 

“All right, _friend_.” Gretchen rubs her wrist. “Why won’t you talk about your wife?”

“What do you want to know?” Owen asks. “We met on shore leave when she was a communications officer on the _Ganymede_ and I was first officer on the _Lexington_. Kathleen was born a year later and Moira came three years after that. Tom was a surprise after ten more years. Julia didn’t want to raise the kids in space, so she started working at headquarters long before I did. She’s the office manager for Admiral Hastur. Her hobbies are linguistic re-interpretation of classic stage performances, hoverball, and needlepoint.”

Owen crosses his arms. 

Gretchen does the same. 

His skin begins to itch with sudden, fierce need. To kiss the irritation off her face. To grasp her rear end in his hands. To pull her close, feel the curve of her breasts pressed against him. He’s sure she would be soft yet fiery, self-assured yet giving. 

“Owen, you’re full of shit.”

Honest, too.

“You asked about my wife and I told you.”

“I didn’t ask for her bio.” Gretchen begins to pace. “I asked why you won’t talk about her. There’s some empirical evidence at play here and I deserve full disclosure.”

Empirical evidence. Owen realizes Gretchen has noticed the way he looks at her with soft eyes. She’s seen how his tongue darts out to his top lip when she leans over to pour more tea. She’s a smart woman, Gretchen Janeway, and Owen glances at the vase of tulips and has a pain deep in his chest.

“Full disclosure is I’m married and I could use a friend.” Owen tells himself this is close enough to the truth. “If you don’t want to have me over for tea anymore, I understand. It’s your decision.”

Gretchen snatches the vase from the sink. She dries the bottom with a dish towel and strides into the dining room to put the flowers in the middle of the table — their usual spot. Owen follows her, forcing his body to radiate a composure he doesn’t feel. When Gretchen looks at him, it’s a glare and she says, “You can keep coming over, but leave your goddamn uniform on. There’s only so many lies I can deal with at a time.”

***

The candles have burned low, but Owen and Gretchen are still chatting, a few green beans left on his plate, a couple of bites of steak still on hers. The bottle of Merlot is empty.

_Voyager_ has been missing for a year and eleven months.

Meeting for tea fell apart once Owen couldn’t block off midday time for investigating _Voyager’s_ disappearance. After he’d canceled yet again, Gretchen told him to forget it, she didn’t need a comm call twice a week to tell her what wasn’t going to happen. Owen had asked about dinner. He would come to Bloomington or she could meet him in San Francisco. Gretchen had leaned toward the screen and said Owen could come to Bloomington, but no way in hell would she waste her time going to San Francisco if he was going to be “a typical Starfleet admiral” and end up working late while she sat, alone, in a restaurant. Owen had filed away that bit of information on the Janeway marriage and suggested he come to dinner on Wednesdays. 

In the months since that conversation, the Dominion and the Founders have brought the Federation to the brink of war and Owen has worked so late he’s spent nights on the couch in his office before starting his day again. But on Wednesday nights, the night Julia visits and stays over at her mother’s house on Mars, Owen’s staff knows he will leave at exactly 1900 hours and hurry toward a transporter room. 

Gretchen hugs Owen hello and goodbye and he holds on a little more each week. When he tries to read reports in his office, he finds himself trying to find the words to describe the smell of her hair. When he can’t sleep, he touches himself and pretends it’s her slim hands instead of his own.

“Then what did the ambassador say?” Gretchen’s face is flushed from laughter.

“He said — he said —” Owen struggles to speak through his own guffaws. “He said, ‘Well, if the admiral with the abundant forehead deems it wise, then we certainly can consider Federation membership.’”

Gretchen glances at Owen’s bald head — the “abundant forehead” that so entranced the ambassador — and dissolves into giggles yet again.

“Every planet in the Federation should hold similar values!” Owen grins as he runs his hand along his smooth head. “I look forward to the welcoming ceremony for our newest, esteemed members of the United Federation of Planets.”

At his false puffery, Gretchen snickers. “Sure, enjoy the ceremony. From what I hear, those events are full of long-winded speeches and music that’s good for a nap.”

Owen is about to tell her she heard correctly when there is a slamming sound from the direction of the front door. Before either of them can move, Phoebe rushes past the dining room, then doubles back to examine the light and people inside. Her eyes shift from her mother to Owen to the remnants of dinner and wine and candles, then back again. 

Owen’s mirth dies. 

“I’m happy to see you, sweetheart.” Gretchen tosses her napkin onto her plate and goes to hug her daughter. “I thought your transport wasn’t getting in until late tonight.”

“I caught an earlier one.” Phoebe embraces her mother, but looks over Gretchen’s shoulder at Owen. “What are you doing here, sir?”

Owen deposits his napkin on his plate, but doesn’t rise from his seat. “I’m having dinner with your mother.”

Both Janeway women roll their eyes.

“I can see that, sir,” Phoebe says.

“Did you eat?” Gretchen asks Phoebe. “I can get you some dinner if you’d like.”

But Phoebe continues to address Owen. “I suppose the deeper meaning to my question, sir, is are you two sleeping together? Because, if you are, I’ll go elsewhere tonight.”

Owen’s mouth falls open, but Gretchen sighs. “Phoebe —” she says. 

“No, really.” Phoebe’s hands go to her hips. “Because finding out my mother was fucking Mary O'Connell’s dad was fun, but not as much fun as when I found out what she had been doing with Coach Cameron. Oh, and then there was both of Emma North’s dads, not to mention —”

“Phoebe.” Gretchen grasps her daughter’s shoulders. “You’re upsetting yourself.”

“You’re right,” Phoebe says. “I’ll just go to my room and you can change your plans.” She walks away, but pauses in the doorway. “Did you bond over your dead kids or something?”

At this, Gretchen leaps forward. By the time she catches up to Phoebe elsewhere in the house Owen can hear the angry tones of an argument but he can’t make out actual words. 

His heart is pounding and his throat is dry. 

Whenever Gretchen talks about Kathryn or Tom, she uses words like “gone” or “departed.” Owen has wondered how to broach his increasing suspicion everyone on _ Voyager _ died. Phoebe clearly has no such tentativeness. 

About anything.

Owen’s eyes squint with his effort to force the memory away. Cadet Janeway canceling a thesis meeting with him. Her communique explaining she needed to attend the funeral of her childhood tennis instructor — Coach Cameron. 

If Owen’s math is correct, Eddie Janeway didn’t die for another four years.

Owen glances at the family portraits. The toothy smiles mock him as his dinner sloshes in his stomach.

Phoebe is back in the doorway. 

“I apologize for saying your son is dead, sir.” Her eyes are narrowed, but she looks straight at Owen. “There is no way to know about Kathryn or Tom. Maybe they’re alive and healthy and have three kids together.”

Phoebe’s bitter laugh fades from Owen’s ears as she walks away.

He grabs his plate and Gretchen’s and carries them to the kitchen. He’ll clear the table and leave, he tells himself. Whatever is going on in this house tonight isn’t his business.

But when Owen lowers the plates into the sink, he drops them too quickly and there’s the high-pitched reverberation of a shatter.

Gretchen runs in.

“Perfect,” she mutters when she sees Owen pulling jagged pieces of china from the sink. 

“I’ll replace the dishes,” he says. 

“They were my grandmother’s.”

Owen curses. 

“It’s okay.” Gretchen’s hip leans against the counter. Her fingers rub her forehead. “I’m not going to get upset about a couple of broken plates. I’m sorry about Phoebe. She shouldn’t have said that about Tom and Kathryn. I’ve spoken to her about it and —”

“You don’t think they’re dead?”

Gretchen’s hand falls to her cheek as if she’s been slapped. “Of course not. There’s no proof —”

Something ugly coils in Owen’s belly. “They’re dead, Gretchen, and you’ve let your personal feelings cloud your scientific objectivity. Whatever happened to _ Voyager _ killed them. I’ll never be able to apologize to my son. You’ll never be able to hug your daughter. We’ve been lying to ourselves and it’s time we stopped believing things that aren’t true.”

Gretchen grabs a waste receptacle and thrusts it at Owen. 

“Finish cleaning up the mess you made, then leave. You’re no longer welcome in this house.”


	3. The Third Year

The jagged edges of the triangle are rubbed smooth. Owen has carried the small, broken piece of china in his pocket for months, setting it next to his commbadge on his nightstand every night. 

He’s almost placed the comm call more times than he can count, rehearsed his apology, begged for forgiveness over and over in his mind.

_Voyager_ has been missing for two and a half years plus one day. So, effective immediately, Starfleet has declared the vessel officially lost and all hands deceased. 

Owen knows if he’s ever going to have the courage he’s spent so many months cursing himself for lacking, then today, ironically, is his chance.

Though he did have his assistant schedule the meeting.

The comm system crackles. “Admiral, Gretchen Janeway is here. I put her in observation lounge fourteen.”

Owen thanks his assistant and makes his way to the small lounge with a view of the academy admissions office and the Golden Gate Bridge. 

Gretchen is standing near the window, arms crossed, her back to him.

Her silhouette is a punch to his gut.

He clears his throat. “How have you been?”

Her voice is steel. “Let’s get this over with.”

Owen has a padd in his hand. He’s supposed to go over the memorial plans for _Voyager’s_ captain and her crew … and the observer who was onboard … to ensure Gretchen understands her rights and benefits as next of kin to a deceased Starfleet officer.

Except he knows she’s been through this before and doesn’t need to be told a damn thing. 

“Well, you must be happy today since they’re officially deceased.” She turns, spine straight, eyes hard. “I’ll initial your goddamn forms and attend whatever ceremony Starfleet holds, but, until there is evidence, I will never, ever believe my daughter is dead.”

Gretchen’s hand jabs forward to take Owen’s padd. 

He clutches the device to his chest. He’s staring at her upturned nose and her auburn-streaked hair and her blue eyes that used to shine with something more than fondness but less than love. He saw it so many times and he was too damn scared to do anything about it.

“I’m sorry.” His rehearsed apology tumbles from his lips. “I should have calmed down before I told you I’d lost hope about Kathryn and Tom. I was angry and I let that anger overwhelm me.”

Gretchen’s eyebrows knit in confusion 

“I’ve missed you,” Owen continues. “I made a mistake and I’d like it if you would let me back into your life. I’m prepared to —”

“You can disagree with me if you do it thoughtfully instead of viciously. And I understand Occam's razor holds that they aren’t alive anymore,” Gretchen says, referring to the problem-solving principle that suggests the simplest solution is most likely the correct one. “But what the hell did I do to make you angry?”

Owen motions to the table and chairs in the room. They sit, both wary, as he explains. 

“I worked with Eddie for years, Gretchen. It took me some time to adjust to the idea you were unfaithful to him. Then, I realized I was jealous because I couldn’t bring myself to cheat on my wife as easily as you cheated on your husband. But I can forgive that, I —”

Gretchen’s chest heaves. 

Her face flushes with fury.

She wrests the padd from Owen and quickly affixes her electronic signature in all the proper places. She tosses the device onto the table, but her throw is too hard. The padd skitters across the flat surface and smacks Owen in the stomach.

“Gretchen,” Owen says, “I know you’re mad, but —”

“You don’t know shit.” She stands so fast her chair crashes to the carpeted floor. “Do you know how it ripped my heart open every time Eddie promised he would be there for the girls and he disappointed them? I had Kathryn mooning around the house missing Daddy and Phoebe drawing pictures of our family with the dog more prominent than her own father. Do you know how much I loved him? How much I begged him to be there for us? To choose his daughters over yet another tactical conference anyone with fucking bars on a fucking Starfleet collar could attend just as well as he could? Do you know what it did to my self-esteem when he would come home and go straight to his computer terminal? Do you know the things I offered to do if he would just touch me? So, yes, I went elsewhere. And fuck you for judging me, for calling the hell I went through an easy decision — and fuck you for your bullshit forgivenesss for something I don’t believe was wrong.”

She’s out the door and down the hall before Owen has a chance to even think of how to tell her he has a fair idea what she went through, a fair idea, indeed.

***

_ Are you awake?  _

Owen sends Gretchen the text-only communique at 0100. It’s been eight hours since she stormed out of the observation lounge.

_ What do you want, Owen? _

_ To explain myself. Can I come over? _

The indicator blinks to show she’s typing. _No._

Owen’s heart hammers as he deploys the only argument he has left: _A scientist I know once reminded me that when more information is needed the only feasible course of action is to acquire it. Please, let me give you more information so you can confirm or refute your hypothesis that I’m a judgmental asshole._

Time stretches as he waits for her response. 

The indicator blinks. _Fine._

Owen exhales. _Thank you. I’ll be there in five minutes._

_ What? _

_ I’m still at headquarters. I’ll transport directly from my office to your front yard.  _

_ I thought you believe site-to-site transport is for the old. _

_ Do old fools count? _

She gives him permission to come over and he materializes a few minutes later. She opens the front door wearing her nightgown and a robe tied tight around her waist. 

He tells her everything. 

How the night he and Julia met was like a bad holonovel complete with seeing each other across a crowded dance floor as time seemed to stop and their hearts leapt. 

How, the very next month, Julia transferred onto Owen’s ship — and moved right into his quarters. 

They got married.

She got pregnant.

They started to fight. 

Julia had grown up on starships and said children should have fresh air and weather and bedrooms that would never know a red alert klaxon. Owen had grown up in space, too, and wanted his children to enjoy a constantly shifting starscape and school field trips to diverse planets. 

When Kathleen was a month old, Julia took a job at headquarters. She told Owen that visits would be enough, that their family would be fine.

Whether she was wrong or lying, Owen has never been sure. 

He spoiled Kathleen and then Moira, too, with gifts when he saw them in person a few times a year. He would come in through the front door, kneel with his arms outstretched, pretend to fall backwards as the girls ran into him, then hold them tight. One visit, he saw it. It was just for a second, but Julia’s eyes became slits and her upper lip curled in disgust. Then, as quickly as it happened, her wide eyes and eager grin were back.

That night, Owen demanded to know what was going on. Julia said he was crazy, it was a trick of the light, their marriage was healthy, and she loved him as much as ever — just let her prove it while they have this chance to share a bed. 

Julia became pregnant. 

She wanted to terminate the embryo. 

Owen was captain of his own ship, an Apollo-class beauty he could walk with his eyes closed. If Julia agreed to keep the baby, he promised to give up the ship, take a desk job, and do the majority of the parenting. Owen felt like a child begging to keep a stray dog, but it worked. 

Even though Tom’s conception was the last time Owen’s wife had sex with him.

Without dramatic homecomings and gifts, Kathleen and Moira didn’t know what to do with their father. He tried, but realized Julia had taught them that daddies were for special occasions but mommies offered love all the time. 

When Tom was born, Owen swore this child would be different, this child would know how much his father loved him. But Owen was too hard on Tom, crushing his narrow shoulders with outsized expectations.

So Owen ended up with three adult children who don’t want anything to do with him, two of whom love their mother and one who barely knows the woman who regarded him more as a roommate than as her child.

If he divorces Julia, Owen loses any connection to his daughters and grandchildren. He’s gone to holosuites for sexual release, but it’s been decades since he’s touched or been touched by a flesh and blood person. He and Julia put on an act outside their home, but, within their own walls, they barely speak.

That is, they barely speak since she told him years ago that she wanted kids and a cushy job at headquarters and the Paris name got her both. She already has more children than she wanted, but being the wife of Admiral Owen Paris gives Julia additional power and prestige within Starfleet. And she loves that, probably more than she ever loved him.

Owen had convinced himself he wasn’t worthy of romance and, besides, he clearly lacked good sense in choosing a partner.

Then, he met Gretchen.

He finishes the story and Gretchen is holding his hand. He asks if she will be his friend again, if they have a chance to be more to each other. 

Their blue eyes meet, his imploring, hers unsure.

“It will take time. But we can try again and see what happens.” She pats his hand with her free one. “Okay?”

He nods, afraid if he speaks the spell will be broken and he’ll be alone again.


	4. The Fourth Year

The commbadge chirps in the middle of the night. “Harkins to Paris.”

Owen gropes for the device on the nightstand. His fingers make contact and he taps it. “Go ahead, Pete.”

“Sir, there’s someone here who insists on talking with you and —”

A familiar, nasal voice interrupts. “Admiral Paris, it’s essential that I speak with you right away!”

Owen grimaces in the dark. “What is it this time, Lewis?”

“Sir,” Pete says, “It’s not Dr. Zimmerman. It’s an EMH Mark One — and he says he’s from _Voyager_.”

Next to Owen, Gretchen sits bolt upright in bed. Her hands cover her mouth. These middle of the night comms have taught her too much about strategy, casualties, and deployments in the Federation’s war against the Dominion. But _Voyager_ has been missing for four years and eight months with no news whatsoever.

The room seems to spin, but Owen maintains his command voice. “How long is the EMH able to communicate with us?”

Pete tells Owen the EMH is at headquarters holoroom twelve and, while eager to return to _Voyager_, can stay to answer questions. 

Owen says he’ll be right there. He cuts the comm and Gretchen speaks. “I’m going with you.”

He’s been beamed to headquarters from her house before. He doesn’t live there, exactly, but he stays over most nights and he’s been called in to work for emergencies. Transporter operators tend to be discreet and Owen is grateful for that. 

But letting her come with him now would be a sure road to gossip about a relationship it took a long time to get right — well, mostly right. 

They started having dinners again after Owen finally told Gretchen the truth about his marriage. After a few weeks, she began to hug him hello and goodbye. One night, he found the courage to kiss her. He’d forgotten the feel of soft, warm lips against his own, the intoxication of a tongue sliding against his, the sensation of hands shifting up and down his back.

Weeks later, when Gretchen pulled away from a kiss to whisper an invitation, Owen practically ran to her bed. Speed was his undoing, though, as Gretchen repeatedly told him to slow down. But he couldn’t and then he was asleep and when he woke up the nightstand on his side of the bed held books: _Kama Sutra_ by Vātsyāyana, _The Logic of Ecstasy_ by T’Pau, and _Bringing Risa Home_ by Arandis.

Owen’s face burned, but he knew Gretchen could have lied or kicked him out. So, he studied. Owen studied harder than he had ever studied before. 

Within a few couplings, Gretchen moaned her praise, then screamed it, and Owen knew he could ease off — but not stop — research into his new favorite subject. 

When he has to cancel or postpone plans because of work, Gretchen bites her lips together and blinks rapidly. Owen tells her he won’t take her for granted, he’s not like Eddie, but she struggles.

He’s seen Gretchen cry only once. She didn’t want to go to Mark’s wedding, but Mark said Gretchen had been like family to him for so long that it wouldn’t be the same without her. That morning, Gretchen lightly touched the mother-of-the-bride gown that still hung in her closet, but went past it to a simple, dark purple shift. She held Phoebe’s hand during the ceremony, refused anything to drink at the reception, and, after not eating her appetizer, told Owen she needed to use the restroom. When he found her there a half-hour later she was sitting on the tile floor with her knees pulled up to her chest, cursing as tears ran down her cheeks. Owen helped her to the hovercar where she immediately told him not to tell Mark, to remember Mark meant well by inviting her.

Every time Owen sees Phoebe, she is polite. Too polite, but her mother would chastise her for being rude, so an exaggerated, “Sir, if you would, sir, please pass the salt, sir,” at dinner and a, “take care and please give my best _to your family,_” when parting are her best weapons to make Owen uncomfortable. Gretchen insists on his presence for events and celebrations, though, so he attends quietly, doing his best to be there without intruding.

But bringing Gretchen to headquarters after a middle-of-the-night comm call means his workplace becomes aware of his affair and Julia could force him to confront what she hasn’t commented on for all these months. 

“You’re worried about your reputation and the feelings of someone who treats you like shit when I have the opportunity to find out about my daughter?” Owen hasn’t said a word, but Gretchen knows how his mind works. She’s already half-dressed and shoving his uniform toward him.

“I’m concerned about losing my only link to my own daughters, to my grandchildren.” Owen takes the uniform. “You can understand that, can’t you?”

Gretchen exhales. “Yes.”

She continues getting dressed, though, and they are ready at the same time. 

Her hands go to her hips. “What’s your decision?”

Owen hasn’t made one, but he taps his commbadge and lets his mouth determine what his brain doesn’t dare. “Paris to Starfleet Command transporter center. Two to beam directly from my location to headquarters holoroom twelve.”

Gretchen’s smile is brighter than the transporter beam and Owen can only hope Julia won’t care … or he still has a son out there who might, one day, find a way to love him.

They materialize in a simulation of a conference room. It’s full of real officers and aides, as well as a very anxious-looking EMH Mark One.

“Admiral,” Pete says, ignoring the woman next to Owen. 

But tact is for humanoids, not holograms.

“You’re the captain’s mother!” The EMH’s eyes go wide. “I recognize you from her medical file.”

Gretchen, well-versed as she is in decorum and command structure, still blurts out, “Is Kathryn alive?”

The EMH nods vigorously. “Indeed, she is, and courageously leads our valiant crew through untold dangers and daring adventures. In fact, it was the captain who —”

The EMH pauses mid-gesticulation. Gretchen has dropped into a chair, her hands covering her face. 

“Do you require medical attention?” the EMH asks and she shakes her head. 

Every person in the room saw them beam in together in the middle of the night, so Owen mentally damns their prying eyes and puts a hand to Gretchen’s shoulder. He clears his throat. “My son, Tom, is he alive?”

“Mr. Paris is very much alive and, while his assistance in sickbay could be improved upon, his piloting has saved the ship and crew on more than one occasion.”

Owen blinks and looks at the ceiling. Thomas Eugene Paris — not an epitaph. A person who lives and breathes. Who flies sober and saves people, not endangers them. Something sharp that had been stuck in Owen’s ribcage loosens and his fingers lace with Gretchen’s on her shoulder. Pete blatantly stares but other officers continue to look anywhere but at the parents of two unrelated _Voyager_ crew members. 

The team sits at the room’s conference table. No one asks Gretchen to leave. The EMH tells them about the Caretaker pulling _Voyager_ to the other side of the galaxy, about crew members lost and added, about the psychological stresses that concern him as a physician, about the resilience of _Voyager’s_ people and technology.

“The ship is holding position near a network of alien relay stations. I’m unsure whether the crew will know my program was successfully sent through the transceiver array, much less of my successful completion of my mission to alert Starfleet to their status in the Delta Quadrant. Therefore, time is of the essence in transmitting me back to my ship.”

There is discussion of how to encode a message and what it should say. Pete suggests a promise Starfleet won’t stop until it finds a way to get _Voyager_ home. Owen approves, adding that the crew also should know headquarters will contact the families of everyone onboard, Starfleet and Maquis alike. 

“Are you ready to return?” Owen asks.

The EMH says he is. Gretchen hasn’t said a word and didn’t even look at Owen when her theory about an intelligence displacing _Voyager_ was proven correct. But she speaks now.

“Is there room in the datastream for one more message?” 

Heads turn toward the impudent civilian, but the EMH smiles encouragingly, as if he’s used to this push for more despite achieving so much. 

“If you could, please, Doctor, tell them,” Gretchen’s voice breaks, “tell them they’re no longer alone.”


	5. The Fifth Year

Owen can’t open his eyes. 

His body feels like he was in a zero g simulator that malfunctioned.

He can feel a device pushing air in and out of his lungs. The too-even breaths are unnatural and they hurt, like his respiratory tract is on fire. 

Fire.

There was a fire.

“Dad?” 

Moira. 

Why is Moira talking to him? She swore she would never speak to him again, told him that he was a pig for cheating on Julia, said his infidelity proved he was a failure as a husband and a father.

“Dad, do you know where you are?”

Owen has no idea where he is.

“Dad, there was an attack on Starfleet Headquarters. The Breen, they …” 

Owen hears Moira crying and he wants to hold her, to stroke her hair and promise her everything will be okay. 

But he can’t even open his goddamn eyes. 

“A lot of people died, Dad. It took rescue teams two days to find you. You were trapped in the rubble and they said you inhaled a lot of smoke from one of the blasts.”

This story is like one of the Jules Verne adventures he used to read his children at bedtime. Owen wonders how it will turn out. 

“We almost lost you. You had so many burns and the doctors said there was a chance your body would reject the regenerated skin and ...”

Owen hears the door open. 

Moira’s tears become accompanied by an awkward “there, there” and then a new voice addresses him.

“Admiral Paris, I’m Dr. Travers. If you can speak, please tell me the last thing you remember.”

Owen remembers Julia throwing the padd with the divorce petition, narrowly missing his head. She said she was hoping to leverage the sympathetic looks she was getting at headquarters into a promotion. He could file for divorce without her consent, but it would be an ugly process that would shift his adultery from Starfleet gossip to public record. Owen had asked why she was fighting him and Julia said he’d left her to raise their daughters, so she wouldn’t let him leave anything else in his life. 

“Admiral, can you tell me what you remember?”

He remembers telling Pete that the Pathfinder Project needed unique thinkers, to recruit across all of Starfleet to pull the best and brightest to work on the plan to regain contact with _Voyager_ after the loss of the alien relay network. 

“Admiral, can you squeeze my hand?”

He remembers Gretchen winning the Daystrom Prize for her paper on the impact of spatial distortions on multi-planetary systems. Among the congratulatory communiques was one from Julia that said, _Quite the scientist who repeats a failed experiment_, and included a Starfleet archival photo of Owen and Eddie toasting each other with synthehol beers. Owen had stammered and spluttered, but Gretchen had immediately typed a response: _Perhaps a change in variables was key to success. I wish you the best in your endeavors._

“Admiral, can you blink?”

He remembers his disappointment when no one from _Voyager_, including Tom, sent responses to the letters from their families and friends.

He remembers starship after starship falling to the Dominion, good officers dead as they followed orders from headquarters. 

He remembers Gretchen’s dismay when the second round of letters couldn’t be sent, but her surety she had done the right thing by letting Mark tell Kathryn himself that he had moved on.

“Admiral, you’re going to be all right but I’m going to sedate you to speed your healing.”

Owen feels a hypospray on his neck.

“Wait!” Moira gasps. “I need to tell him …”

Owen loses consciousness before he can hear what Moira wanted to say. 


	6. The Sixth Year

“Gretchen!”

“Owen, you aren’t supposed to run yet. The doctor said —”

“I talked to Kathryn today!”

Gretchen doesn’t so much sit on her front steps as her legs give out and she falls onto her rear end with more grace than might be expected. 

Huffing and puffing from the sprint that has inflamed his still-recovering lungs, Owen coughs as he tells Gretchen that Reg Barclay, yes, the officer who got caught with holodeck recreations of the _Voyager_ crew, enabled communication through a micro-wormhole. Owen explains how Reg gave him time to convey a message to Tom, to tell his son he misses him and is proud of him.

“Kathryn sounded good, Gretchen — like herself. She didn’t seem beat down or frightened. She was in command. I think she was on the bridge.”

Gretchen asks for every nuance of Kathryn’s voice, followed by a few technical questions about the communication. Then, she gets to her feet to go comm Phoebe with the news. Owen follows saying he’ll comm Kathleen and Moira. 

“What about Julia?” Gretchen looks at Owen sharply. 

“Gretchen, we’ve been through this —”

“Owen.”

He knows the argument well. 

How his recovery over the last six months is a gift born of patience, hard work, and luck. 

How his daughters took turns at his bedside talking about anything and everything to give his mind something to latch onto. 

How they did the same for Julia, but the results were far less impressive. 

With the Federation’s victory in the war, Owen has made time in his schedule a few days a week to go to Julia’s room at Starfleet Medical. A doctor always gives him the same report, “Brain activity scan inconclusive.” His daughters visit when they can, but they live offworld and used most of their leave time when both their parents were hospitalized. Julia’s mother is too ill to make the trip.

If Julia lives, she will be the only survivor in the office she once managed, an office that was near the epicenter of the Breen attack on headquarters. 

Well, she’s technically alive.

“I’ll go,” Owen tells Gretchen. “You’re right.”

Gretchen kisses him and he can feel her smile against his lips.

She’s told him how frightened she was that Starfleet would take another love from her life — that Owen died in the attack, in the rubble, in the hospital — and she would only find out from the news. 

One evening when he was at Starfleet Medical, Moira said goodnight and that Kathleen would be there in the morning. The door hadn’t quite closed behind Moira when Gretchen slipped in wearing black trousers and a black long-sleeved shirt. A dark grey sweater tied around her neck rested on her shoulders. It wasn’t a Starfleet uniform, but the idea was similar. 

Owen’s eyes crinkled in joy, though he wasn’t yet able to smile. His skin was bright pink and hairless from regeneration. His chest expansions shuddered in the bronchial stimulator. A shelf behind his biobed held the dozens of medications doctors administered through his neck every day.

“I needed to see you.” Gretchen’s voice trembled and her back pressed against the wall next to the door. “I needed to see Eddie’s body. I needed to know what happened to Kathryn. And I needed to see you.”

Owen was able to direct a communication interface with his eyes. Letter by letter, he chose: _Come here._

Her forehead creased in confusion. “How did I come here? I walked in with a group of doctors. I know visits are restricted to family because of all the wounded, but —

_ No. Come over here. I missed you. _

She pushed away from the wall and when her hand tentatively found his, his eyes closed.

“Am I hurting you?”

He opened his eyes. _No. It’s bliss._

Six doors down from the room Gretchen would sneak into twice more until Starfleet Medical allowed non-family visits, Owen takes his usual seat in the armchair next to the biobed. Thanks to muscle-stimulating nanites, Julia has a rosy, healthy look about her, as if she could jump off the bed, glare at him, and stalk out of the room. 

He tells her every detail about the communication with _Voyager_.

No response. 

He tells her that he hopes for more regular contact with their son.

No response.

He tells her that he will pass the information to their daughters, but he doesn’t mention that, as they reminisced by his bedside for hours on end, Kathleen and Moira found an appreciation for him they never had before. He’s become a part of their lives and the lives of his grandchildren in a way he’d dreamed about for years. He certainly doesn’t mention that Phoebe Janeway no longer shoots him venomous glances and even introduced him to her boyfriend, a young man Owen likes very much.

Owen tells Julia he will come back the next day. He manages to avoid the nurses and doctors who have been pressuring him more every time he visits. It’s his decision, they stress. He can say it’s been too long and there’s no hope and letting Julia die would be a mercy. 

But Owen’s stomach twists at the bitter choice. Would allowing Julia’s death be leaving her again? The ultimate betrayal for his own convenience? Or is letting her be kept alive the cruelty?

Owen hurries back to the transporter station. He wants to share the good news about Tom with Kathleen and Moira. He wants to hold Gretchen in his arms and say something funny so he can feel her laugh. He wants to put Julia in a box in his mind — but not in the ground — and close the lid tight. 

But nothing with Julia has ever worked out the way Owen wanted it to.


	7. The Seventh Year

When Tom was little, he loved Superman. “Look! Up, in the sky!” he would say, his tiny finger in the air as he mimicked the ancient television program long since converted into a holo-adventure. “It’s a bird! It’s a plane! It’s Superman!”

Owen thinks of this as _Voyager_ descends through Earth’s sky toward the grassy area in front of Starfleet headquarters.

“Alert the families,” he orders Reg Barclay. “And have security teams form a perimeter around the landing site.”

He reopens the comm line to _Voyager_. 

“You’re breaking every rule in the safety manual,” he warns Kathryn. 

“I’ll take the reprimand, sir,” she replies. “I’ve been waiting seven years for this.”

The landing struts extend a few seconds early and the ship bounces slightly. Owen sucks in air as he realizes Tom isn’t at the helm. 

Could something have happened to Tom?

“Paris to Paris.” 

Owen taps his badge. “Paris here.”

“Dad, you’re a grandfather again!”

Over the comm line, Owen hears a baby crying. His face splits in a grin.

Owen knew from his Reg Barclay-enabled, trans-galactic comm calls with Tom that B’Elanna was due soon. 

On the first call, Owen and Tom had stared, each taking in the other’s thinner hair, thicker waistline, and furrowed brow. Tom had started with, “So, it's been a while ...” and Owen’s nervous laughter set them both off. 

After that, Owen updated Tom about Kathleen and Moira and their families. Tom told Owen about the brilliant engineer he’d married. That was Owen’s opportunity to talk about Julia, but the three minutes were up and Tom said, “See ya next time,” and was gone.

It was just as well. 

On the second call, Owen told Tom how, a few days before, Julia died at Starfleet Medical. Owen stressed he had consulted with Kathleen and Moira and the three of them agreed ceasing medical assistance was the humane choice. Tom had run his hand over his hair and said, “The three of you know her better than I ever did.” Owen had apologized in a general way that could have meant anything and everything, then asked Tom how he was doing. 

During her two comm calls with Kathryn, Gretchen asked about her daughter’s stress level, food consumption, and loneliness. Gretchen told Kathryn how she missed her but never gave up hope. They talked about Phoebe’s engagement and Mark’s care for Mollie, Kathryn’s dog.

A total of 360 seconds per child wasn’t a lot of time. 

And, of course, admiral-to-captain official calls were hardly an opportune time to bring up personal business.

The baby’s cry threatens Owen’s command control, though, so he chokes out, “I’m eager to meet her. I’ll board as soon as I can.”

_Voyager’s_ gangplank extends and crew members begin to pour off the ship. Owen cedes command of the control center to Pete Harkins and runs to join other _Voyager_ family members. He swiftly clears Starfleet security and rushes toward the vessel. From the corner of his eye, he sees a child who looks to have Ktarian heritage. The little girl stoops to comb the grass with her fingers. Owen knows her name — Naomi Wildman. He’s studied Kathryn’s logs so intently, he knows all the names.

“Mr. Tuvok!” he says upon pushing his way to the top of the gangplank. “Welcome home!”

“Indeed,” the Vulcan replies, eyebrow arched. “I apologize for the breach in Starfleet security protocols. The captain was most insistent regarding ...”

Owen is already several sections down the corridor. He’s a salmon swimming upstream against the tide of _Voyager_ crew members, but he reaches sickbay. 

“Dad!”

A newborn baby peeks out from the blanket in Tom’s arms. There is an embrace, introductions between Owen and B’Elanna, and another embrace. The EMH tells Owen he’s delighted to see him again. Owen replies the feeling is mutual, but he wants to know how _Voyager_ got home. Tom has barely begun telling about Admiral Janeway from the future when the sickbay doors open and it’s Gretchen.

“Security won’t let me up to the bridge.” One of her hands is pressed to her sternum and she doesn’t seem to notice anyone except for Owen. “I have to get to the bridge. Owen, please.”

He wonders how the hell she even got on the ship, but he knows better than to question her right now. 

“Tom,” Owen says, “would you mind accompanying us?”

As Tom leads them into the corridor, Owen hears B’Elanna ask the EMH who was that woman and the EMH answer, “The captain’s mother … and a particular friend of your father-in-law’s if I’m not mistaken.”

After a quick nod to security, the two Paris men and Gretchen enter a turbolift. As it rises to deck one, she stands on her tiptoes. “I apologize,” she says to Tom, her eyes on the turbolift doors, “I’m pleased to meet you but I’m a bit distracted right now.”

Tom says, “Nice to meet you, too,” just as the doors open and Gretchen darts out. Kathryn is locking down the ops station while the man Owen recognizes as Commander Chakotay is locking down the bridge’s engineering console. Kathryn’s head jerks up and —

“Mom!” 

The two women collide with their arms around each other. They’re laughing and crying and swaying from side to side. Just when it seems they might separate, one of them squeezes the other and they start all over.

Tom speaks softly into his father’s ear. “Should we give them their privacy?”

“Just a minute, son.” Owen puts a hand to Tom’s shoulder. “There are a few things we haven’t had a chance to discuss.”

Kathryn’s eyes have closed in the warmth of her mother’s embrace, but she opens them and sees Owen. 

“Sir.” Her smile wavers. “I’m sure you understand this breach of protocol on the bridge.”

“I do,” Owen says. “I’d also like my favorite former science officer to analyze something for me.”

Kathryn’s head tilts in confusion.

“Gretchen,” Owen whispers. “Show her.”

Gretchen’s laugh is slightly maniacal, but she pulls away from her daughter just enough for Kathryn to see Gretchen’s left ring finger. It’s simple, just a band and a setting that should be for a gemstone but, instead, there’s a precision-cut piece of porcelain. Kathryn’s eyes go wide and her fingertip brushes the remnant of her great-grandmother’s broken dish.

“Mom,” Kathryn breathes, “are you married?”

“No, no, no, no, no.” Gretchen shakes her head. “Just happy — and somewhat spoiled by the affections of a wonderful man.”

Kathryn’s eyes shift, not unlike her sister’s so many years ago, from Gretchen to Owen and back. 

Tom is less subtle. He blurts out, “When you said _Voyager_ was a family, Captain, I’m not sure this was what you had in mind.”

Owen watches as Kathryn and Tom seem to have a short conversation with their eyes. It ends when Kathryn bites her bottom lip and Tom shrugs slightly.

“It’s been a long seven years,” Kathryn finally declares. “I’m sure we all have stories to tell.”

And they do. 

Over dinner that evening and for many to come, Owen and his family and Gretchen and hers share tales of being lost and found, frightened and bold, lonely and befriended. Sometimes, when Phoebe and Kathryn bicker or Moira and Kathleen tease Tom or B’Elanna catches the eye of another partner and they exchange shakes of their heads, Owen will look at Gretchen. Her lips will be curled into a gentle smile and her contentment with the love around her, none of it simple or easily earned, fills Owen’s chest and, to the groans of those around the table, he just has to kiss her. 


End file.
